


just watch the fireworks

by Anonymous



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Fireworks, Fluff, Guy Fawkes Night, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:40:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27408955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Then, in a whisper, barely audible: “I just—I just want to see fireworks. I’ve...never celebrated Guy Fawkes night before.”Absolutely pathetic. And yet… And yet here I am, putting myself in a position I don’t need to be in, just to see Snow happy. Just to see him smile.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 1
Kudos: 67
Collections: Anonymous





	just watch the fireworks

**Baz**

“Christ, could you be a bit quieter?” I snap as Snow trails behind me on the staircase. 

Access to the rooftop is restricted to staff only, but I’ve been going ever since I uncovered the magickally hidden stairway in my first year at Watford. 

The reason I’ve never been caught is because I’ve always been  _ quiet.  _ But my streak of going unnoticed is about to come to an end, if Simon doesn’t stop stomping like a baby numpty learning to walk. 

Aleister Crowley, I don’t know what I’m doing. 

This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. I loathe Snow. I loathe Snow’s power _ ,  _ and the fact he’s bloody well awful at controlling it. I loathe the way Snow makes me feel. An abundance of loathing— _ that’s  _ how it’s supposed to go. (Snow is incredibly easy to loathe.) (He’s also incredibly easy to  _ love,  _ though.) (That’s the problem.)

To celebrate Guy Fawkes night, Snow and Bunce used magic in their attempt to decorate the sky with fireworks. Chomsky knows why. Probably because it’s never celebrated at Watford. (The Mage thinks firework displays don’t benefit Magickal education.)

Instead, they ignited a fire within the trees. The entire Wavering Woods would have been ablaze if I didn’t extinguish it when I did. I could have let Bunce handle it (she  _ was _ the one responsible enough for even allowing Snow’s magickal-firework-attempt) but maneuvering fire comes naturally to me, and the woods are more useful intact. 

Which is fine. I can rationally justify helping them for the sake of Watford. What I can’t rationally justify, however, is leading Snow upstairs to the rooftop to witness something I’ve kept to myself for years. My justification for allowing Snow into this part of my life is pathetic, definitely not rational—but it’s the only one I’ve got. 

It’s on a ceaseless loop in my mind—playing again, and again, and again. After I’d solved the duo’s problem, I sneered at Snow the entire journey back to our room. When I confronted him on  _ why _ he’d do something so stupid, he folded in on himself. 

Then, in a whisper, barely audible:  _ “I just—I just want to see fireworks. I’ve...never celebrated Guy Fawkes night before.” _

Absolutely pathetic. And yet… And yet here I am, putting myself in a position I don’t need to be in, just to see Snow happy. Just to see him smile.

Times like these, I wish I was  _ really _ dead, not half-dead, undead, or whatever I am. If only to prevent myself from feeling. 

“Sorry…” Snow mutters, pausing, before continuing with lighter footsteps. 

I ignore him until we reach the door. There’s a gust of sharp, winter wind when I swing it open, and I shiver. Distantly, I crave the warmth that’s always radiating off Snow. 

“Don’t tell anyone about this, Snow,” I warn while holding the door open for him. 

His warmth and magic levitate toward me as he walks past, in small wisps that soon build up until I’m enveloped with heat, entirely by proxy. My eyes close for a moment, and I sigh. 

“I don’t even know what  _ ‘this’ _ is.” He shrugs while raising his hands to perform air-quotes, then pauses, as if he’s only now been drenched in the reality of the situation. “Wait…what  _ is _ this?” 

I roll my eyes. 

Snow wonders why he constantly falls trap to difficult, unprecedented situations, but the answer is clear: he walks right into them without a moment of hesitation. I’ve yet to discover why. 

“You’ll see,” I tell him, trying to convey a tone of voice that reassures Snow this isn’t an attempt on his life. “This way.” 

He trails behind me as I walk to the rooftop’s barrier, to the spot with the best view. When we reach it, he looks hesitant, like I’m seconds away from throwing him over. 

“Just wait,” I say sternly, and Snow blinks, but nods. 

We wait for a minute or two, the silence disturbed only by shuffles of movement, and the atmosphere only slightly uncomfortable. It’s always like this with Snow—not comfortable, but not entirely  _ un _ comfortable, either. Ever since I stopped actively trying to off him, that is. 

It begins suddenly, with a bang that’s hushed by the distance. Then a multitude of colours from every spectrum explode into the sky, embellishing it. Firework after firework, the sky is blazing, the colours illuminating the darkness in glittering spirals.

I turn to look at Snow. He’s a canvas under the vivid night sky; painted with streaks of orange, tinted shades of blue, toned red. His blue eyes are wide, searching and exploring the sky wondrously. He’s pressed flush against the barrier, as if the action will draw him closer to the fireworks, and his hands grip the surface of it tightly, excitedly. His smile’s so big he’s practically beaming. 

Simon Snow is the most captivating person I’ve ever laid eyes on. 

I want to tell him that he’s beautiful, but I’m afraid it’ll shatter the bubble we’re in, where Snow’s in close proximity to me  _ and _ happy _.  _ (Two things that, predominantly, are mutually exclusive.) (There’s also the possibility he’d kill me in response.)

Instead, I stare at him like I’ve done so many times before. Every time his eyes crinkle, or his smile stretches, there’s an annoying tugging sensation in my chest. Aleister fucking Crowley, I’ve gone soft. 

A particularly impressive firework shatters into the sky, causing Snow to gape. He pulls repeatedly at my sleeve, like a child would do to get someone’s attention, while pointing to the sky. 

“Crowley, Baz!” Snow says. He’s still pulling at my sleeve, and I stumble towards him slightly from the force of it. “Did you see that?!” 

“Of course I did,” I scoff, but feel the corner of my mouth curve into a smile. “I’m standing right next to you.” 

“This is…” He trails off, at a loss for words, and I wait for him to find them. “This is  _ wicked,” _ he finally says. 

His hand continues to grip my sleeve, but he’s not tugging anymore. It rests there gently instead, suffusing heat throughout my entire body, burning my skin. I want to move closer to him and savour the sensation. (I don’t care that I’m flammable.) (I don’t.)

“I mean, I’ve seen fireworks on the telly, but never in real life,” he confesses. 

It’s exactly in Snow’s nature to have an entire world of magic surrounding him, to have literal, magickal powers _ ,  _ but still be fascinated at something so trivial as fireworks. It’s disgustingly endearing. 

Initially, I began coming up here to clear my head. It’s excruciatingly difficult to have time alone when Snow follows you around like a lost dog—especially when it’s him you want time alone from. I was surprised he hadn’t found his way up here already by following me. 

It was a complete coincidence I stumbled onto the rooftop on Guy Fawkes night in first year and fell witness to the annual array of fireworks in the distance, outside Watford. It never crossed my mind Snow might have cared to see them until tonight. (Part of me wishes I’d shown him it sooner.) (For the opportunity to see him smile.)

Snow meets my gaze. He has glints of colour decorating his face, and his curls are messy from the wind. The night is cold, but with Snow here, flaming from the core, I feel grounded in warmth. 

“You’re not watching,” he points out, laughing lightly. “You’re going to miss the fireworks.” 

I’d rather miss fireworks than Snow’s expression, but I’ll be damned before I tell him that.

“Merlin, they’re only fireworks. You’re mad,” I try instead, and Snow shrugs. 

Despite the natural pause, Snow doesn’t turn back to the fireworks, but instead maintains eye contact. I lick my lips absentmindedly, and his eyes fall, zoning in on them. Something coils tight in my chest at the action. 

Snow’s grip tightens slightly, where he’s  _ still  _ got a hold of my sleeve. His eyes fall further and when he seems to notice where his hand’s resting, he snatches it away. 

“Sorry…” he mutters, clenching the dropped hand into a fist.

I turn away from him and towards the fireworks. 

“It’s okay,” I assure, but it’s more a croak than anything else. 

I can tell Snow doesn’t turn away instantly, from the heaviness of his gaze against the side of my head, but I ignore him until he does. And then I can’t ignore him, because he scuffles against the rooftop barrier, moving closer to me until we’re shoulder-to-shoulder, our arms aligned. 

I inhale sharply, willing myself steady. Every nerve ending in my body is alight and pulsating with exhilaration. The strength required to stay rooted is demanding, even with the vampire advantage. 

Snow doesn’t seem to mind the closeness, though. He stands there, pressed against me without a care in the world. As if it’s something we’ve done for years. 

The back of his hand grazes gently against my own, which causes my head to jerk in his direction. When I do, he’s already staring at me, the skin around his eyes crinkling, and his lips upturned. He looks happy. Crowley, he looks so happy. 

“You’re not watching,” I repeat his words from earlier. “You’re going to miss the fireworks.” 

Simon smiles brighter than he has all night. “You’re right,” he says, directing his attention back to the display in the sky. 

I mimic the action, and my lips curve into a smile of their own while I watch the range of colours illustrate the sky. Simon’s hand grazes mine softly once again, and my heart thuds in my chest. I can’t remember the last time I smiled— _ really  _ smiled, something beyond a sneer. 

I know it’s a crooked smile, misaligned, and slightly off. 

But for the first time, in a long time, it’s genuine. 

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
